Obsession
by Scribe Teradia
Summary: Infatuation strikes when least expected, can Pansy rein in her strange obsession or give in? Pansy's PoV, mature content.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to play in it on occasion.

**Author's Note:** For those who have read my in-progress piece 'Curse You, DeWitt!', or my finished piece 'It's Never Just Sex', yes, this is basically the same Pansy, mostly because I kind of really like certain aspects of her character that I've developed in my head. In theory, it's set about two months after the end of 'Curse You, DeWitt!' (which we really are still working on, I promise), and is meant to be a stand-alone piece, so don't feel like you have to read some other story that's not yet completed. I should mention I'm NOT a fan of this particular pairing, but the idea got stuck in my head and I had to run with it. Also, while it's not yet completed, it's not meant to be terrifically long, and I expect to have it finished within a week or so.

**Obsession**

by Scribe Teradia

Part One

His mouth was driving her crazy.

She'd been sitting in his office, facing him across the desk, for the better part of an hour, watching him talk. He had a wide, generous mouth, the lips almost feminine in their fullness, his teeth just a little bit crooked, enough to be endearing rather than off-putting. It was the flash of tongue that had done her in, and she'd spent the last ten minutes imagining what it would feel like to have his mouth on her skin, teeth and tongue lavishing attention on sensitive flesh...

"Parkinson?" The sharp, almost concerned note in his voice snapped her out of her daydream, and she realized she had no clue what he'd been saying for several minutes. "You feeling all right?"

"Of course," she replied, feeling suddenly ridiculous. "I was just thinking about where to have lunch." Her tone was flippant and dismissive, the words an outright lie, but there was no way he'd ever call her on it; subtlety wasn't his strong suit. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying the projections for the new book look good," he repeated, looking irritated. "If you're not going to pay attention, though, maybe we should just call it a day."

Pansy rolled her eyes, but she was inwardly glad for an excuse to get away from him. "What's to pay attention to?" she asked, rising gracefully to her feet. "I may not be all that bright, but I know my craft. If I understood the business, I wouldn't need you, would I?" This, too, was a lie, but it was the pretense by which their working relationship continued to function.

"Your lack of ambition never fails to astound, Parkinson."

"I have plenty of ambition, where it counts. Look at it this way: by me leaving now, you have time to rendezvous with Lovegood before the Potters' little soiree this evening." There was just enough sarcasm to her tone that one might believe she didn't care that he was in a relationship.

"How did you--" he began, only to have her cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Please don't insult my connections, Weasley. I may not be all chummy with you and Potter and your respective significant others, but I'm still at the top of the gossip chain." She rolled her eyes again and turned to go. "Next week, then?"

"As scheduled," was his reply, and she knew without looking that he was frowning at her, his tongue moving over his lips to moisten them as he thought.

Still without looking, Pansy fled. Oh, her walk was as graceful and unhurried as ever, but she was fleeing none-the-less, silently berating herself for her behavior. Ron Weasley! Even if he wasn't engaged to that Lovegood woman, the idea of being infatuated with the youngest of the Weasley men was preposterous, for someone of her background and upbringing. True, her parents had never taken the necessary steps to join the Dark Lord's cause, but they'd been tacit supporters of it... at least when he seemed to be winning. To obsess over the best friend of the Boy Who Lived was just... completely unacceptable.

Pansy stepped into the lift and stabbed at a button with a manicured finger, willing the doors to close while she was still alone. Wish granted, she breathed a sigh into the quiet compartment, followed by a murmur, just under her breath, "Draco, this is entirely your fault."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to play in it on occasion.

**Part Two**

"This isn't working," Pansy said, heaving a sigh.

"What?" Her companion looked up from her breast, blinking in confusion that she was not as involved in the throes of passion as his attentions were supposed to make her. "Is no good?" he asked, in his broken English, lowering his head again to suckle at her other breast.

"No," Pansy replied abruptly, with a flash of irritation. "Is no good." She brought her hands up to push at his head, then his shoulders, sliding out from underneath him. "You no longer interest me." What was his name, again? Fernando, Federico, something starting with an F, she thought.

"But --" he began, still looking hopelessly lost, like a puppy who'd been kicked by a previously-kind mistress. Pansy looked over her shoulder and decided the analogy was rather accurate, taking in the warm brown eyes and dark curly hair. Then her gaze drifted lower, noting the rather obvious side-effect of their foreplay, and she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she muttered, rolling toward him and shoving at his shoulder, then climbing atop him as he rolled onto his back. "So. Fucking. Predictable." The words were growled, low, each one punctuated by a sharp rolling thrust of her hips that cut off speech altogether until he was bucking and panting and moaning beneath her. It didn't take long for her to bring him to a finish, and without giving him any time to recover she pushed away from him, sliding out of the bed and heading for the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. You can see yourself out, and make sure to collect all of your things," she said, her tone imperious.

Closing the bathroom door behind herself, Pansy leaned against it and listened as her most recent paramour (Draco called them her 'boytoys', and she often used that term as well, though she'd never admit that to /him/) gathered his things and left. Once he was gone, she allowed herself to reflect on the source of her irritation: Weasley. The afternoon's infatuation had grown into a full-blown obsession, and while she didn't understand why she was suddenly fixated on the man, it had interfered with her enjoyment of... damn, what _was_ his name again? When she'd first met him, she'd been charmed by his accent, and hadn't really cared that he barely spoke English. She wasn't interested in lengthy conversations, after all, and his talents in her bed had more than made up for the lack of linguistic skills.

Since the irrational flash of infatuation earlier that afternoon, however, she hadn't been able to get Weasley out of her head, and her mind wandered there again, one hand drifting along her abdomen and then lower as she thought of him. What _would_ it be like to bed the Weasel? Her thoughts turned to what little she knew of him personally, even after several years of working with him, and the less she'd been able to gather about why he and Granger had fallen through. More enthusiasm than talent and experience, she suspected, but that was perfectly fine with her, it made him pliable, trainable...

Minutes later, Pansy leaned back against the wall, her heart pounding, breath coming in short gasps, her whole body flushed and warm. It was far from the first time she'd had to satisfy her own needs, and she doubted it would be the last, especially given this recent infatuation/obsession with Ron Weasley. What marked it as a significant event, however, was the fact that for the first time since she and Draco had discovered sex together years ago, his hadn't been the face she'd thought of as her skillful fingers did their work; instead, she'd been thinking of Ron.

Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, she heaved a sigh, swearing under her breath as she did so. Much as she disliked the idea of caving to carnal necessity, the fact remained that she was hooked on Ron, and somehow she needed a find a way to just get him out of her system, so that life could return to normal. "I need a drink," she murmured, muzzily, to herself. "Maybe half a dozen." Alcohol wouldn't sharpen the thought process at all, but it couldn't possibly make things any worse, at this point; unfortunately, she didn't keep liquor in the house precisely because it dulled her thoughts, and she preferred to keep them sharp, most days.

"Shower," she said to herself, pushing to her feet. "Maybe I'll find some new boytoy to help drive the Weasel out of my head, at least for tonight." With the aid of enough alcohol, anything was possible.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I apologize for taking so long with this section, which I had planned to finish and post two days ago. Work did not cooperate, and then life got busy due to the weekend, and then Pansy decided to give me hell with the ending of this chapter. She wanted more smut, I prefer to let my readers allow their imaginations to do at least some of the work here. I particularly enjoyed the beginning of this section, her dismissal of the boytoy was very Slytherin and completely in line with how I've come to view her character. Reviews are always welcome! I read each one and try to reply within a reasonable time frame, and I want to thank SeraphimeRising and insanereality710 for being my first reviewers and asking for more! It helps drive the creative process when I know people are actually reading. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to play in it on occasion.

**Part Three**

Though Pansy was considered to be something of a celebrity in the wizarding world, her publicity was handled solely through Weasley's agency, and there was none of the drama that one saw around Muggles who were similarly famous, no wizarding paparazzi. Part of this was due to the simple fact that it was harder to mob someone who could just Apparate away from uncomfortable questions, but she credited most of it to Weasley's younger sister. According to rumor, a reporter had once accosted a very pregnant Mrs. Potter for "a few words" regarding her husband, and gotten a face full of hexes for his trouble. It had made the wizarding media wary of the rest of Weasley's clientele, and afforded Pansy a great deal more privacy than she would ordinarily have had, something she was quite grateful for on occasion.

She was finding it particularly useful now, tucked away in a booth in a pub that was two steps away from being a dive, a bottle of firewhiskey half-empty on the table in front of her. The class of clientele was low enough that she was fairly sure she wouldn't be recognized, though the bartender had given her a skeptical look when she'd placed her order. Women of Pansy's obvious class didn't frequent such establishments, nor did they drink firewhiskey from the bottle by themselves, but she'd paid in coin and paid double, so he'd said nothing when she'd taken up his back booth. Already, the buzz of intoxication was doing its job of eradicating the afternoon's events from her mind, and she was almost confident that by morning she might have forgotten her infatuation with Weasley altogether.

There was a commotion from over by the bar, and Pansy turned her head to look in that direction. She hadn't been paying close attention to the comings and goings of the pub's patrons, and was surprised to find that it was more crowded than she had thought, and the crowd around the bar meant that the source of the noise wasn't immediately obvious. "Bloody hell, give me some ruddy space already, an' another bleedin' drink!" came a yell, and Pansy cringed as she recognized the voice as belonging to the man she'd spent half the day thinking about.

With a sigh, she pushed herself out of the booth, sliding around a bear of a man and beelining toward the bar, trying not to smirk as the crowd parted for her. She sidled up to the bar and leaned against it, then murmured, "Rough night, Weasley?"

The redheaded wizard jumped as if he'd been scalded, his head lolling about before his blue eyes finally focused on her. "Parkinson?" he asked, as if unsure of her identity, even though he'd just seen her that afternoon.

She rolled her eyes and repressed a groan. "Merlin, Weasley, you're trashed," she informed him, rather imperiously. "Whatever will the little woman think of you coming home in such a state?"

He blinked at her for several seconds, then abruptly burst into tears. "She's left me!" he wailed, listing toward Pansy and almost unbalancing himself off of the stool.

Pansy stared at him, her expression vaguely horrified, and then she reached to help him down. "Come on, let's get you out of here before you get any more attention," she said, her tone decisive and surprisingly sober considering the amount of firewhiskey she'd had. She dug a few more coins out of her pocket and dropped them on the bar, then pointed Ron in the general direction of the exit. "You don't have to walk straight, you just have to stay on your feet," she told him, hoping he didn't pass out on her before she could get him somewhere quiet.

Babbling incoherently about wrackspurts and nargles, he was fairly easy to direct out to door to the street, and then into an alleyway where she could Apparate the pair of them directly back to her flat. She got him settled on her sofa, still talking to himself, and went into the kitchen to start some coffee. By the time she returned to the living room, however, he'd fallen asleep, curled up on his side, mouth hanging open as he snored. It didn't surprise her at all that he snored, though it wasn't nearly at the volume she'd imagined it would be, and she spent a moment watching him, musing to herself that he was almost cute when he was sleeping. She shook herself out of it with a sigh, drawing her wand to summon a blanket from the linen closet to cover him with. Then she returned to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of coffee before getting comfortable in one of the chairs nearby, preferring to remain where she could keep an eye on him.

* * *

An unholy screech woke her, and Pansy blinked sleepily, momentarily disoriented until the previous day's events returned to her in a rush that made her groan. She looked over at the sofa to see Weasley sitting up on it, staring at her in abject horror. "P-P-P-Parkinson!" he stammered, the final syllable coming out on a bit of a squeal that reminded her all over again that she wasn't supposed to even _like_ him. "What-- Did I-- Did we--"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Weasley," she replied, her tone one of indifference and even irritation that he would have to ask. "_I_ wasn't that trashed. Besides, if we'd done anything, you wouldn't have woken up _fully clothed_ on the sofa," she pointed out, rolling her eyes as she got to her feet.

He blinked slowly at her, his blue eyes still cloudy with what she was guessing was a massive hangover, and understanding finally dawned, his jaw going slack as some of the horror ebbed from his expression. "Oh."

"I'll get you something for your head," she said, one hand trailing along the arm and then the back of the sofa as she walked around it. Suddenly, she found herself turning, leaning over the back of the sofa until her mouth was right by his ear, and her voice was a husky purr as she murmured, "And if I'm ever out of my head enough to sleep with you, _Ronald_, I can guarantee you that you'll remember it in the morning."

She couldn't be sure if it was the words, or her voice, or her sudden proximity that made him jump as though he'd been scalded, and she pushed herself away from him and stalked into the kitchen before he had a chance to respond. A resounding CRACK informed her that he'd Apparated away, and she leaned against the counter for a moment, sincerely hoping he hadn't splinched himself. Why had she done that? She had no excuse for her behavior, and chalked it up to the irrational obsession she'd recently developed; certainly, such tactics had worked on other men in her life. Pansy sighed, raked a hand through her hair, and resolved not to think about it until she'd had at least three more hours' worth of sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I cannot apologize enough for this update taking so long. Work has been insane, and then my laptop wouldn't boot and gave me all kinds of other issues. I don't want to be one of those writers who never updates, and I do have this plotted through to the end, if my readers will just stick with me! I really like Pansy in this chapter, we see a little more of how jaded she's become, and I have my reasons for this, and I also love that Ron is such a ridiculously cheap drunk in comparison. As always, reviews are welcome, and kudos to SeraphimeRising, who's reviewed twice!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's world, I just like to mess with her characters on occasion

**Author's Note:** Apologies all around for the delay in posting this chapter, which was written two weeks ago. I was agonizing over how short it is, and trying to figure out how to make it longer, and finally decided that it works as-is. My thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far and is keeping up with this piece, and of course major kudos to my beta bookaddict19 who's responsible for Lavender's profession.

**Part Four**

A persistent chirping noise roused Pansy later on in the day, and it tookher most of a minute to realize that someone wastrying to reach her by mirror. Wondering who could possibly be calling her at such an ungodly hour, she flailed a hand in the bedding until she located the offending bit of artifice, flipping it open and growling, "What?"

"Pansy, darling, where are you?" The voice of Lavender Brown, premiere gossip columnist of the wizarding world, was entirely too chipper, and Pansy cracked an eye open to glare at her friend.

"I'm in bed. What do you want, Lav?" Memory was starting to return, slowly, and it occurred to her that the hour may not have been quite as ungodly as she'd originally thought. "What time is it?"

"It's four in the afternoon, sweetheart, what /are/ you doing still in bed?" Lavender peered closer at the mirror, her expression one of open admiration and curiosity. "Long night with Francisco? Should I call you later?"

Francisco. So /that/ was his name. Pansy shook her head, throwing off the covers and getting up, the mirror still held in one hand. "No, it's fine. You were right, by the way. He more than made up for his lack of linguistic skills. I sent him home yesterday."

Lavender sighed theatrically. "That's a shame. I don't suppose you happened to get his number?"

"I'll owl it later," Pansy replied, smirking. Lavender's profession all but gave her a license to party, and she was a notorious flirt, but at the end of the day her heart belonged to Seamus Finnegan, and all of her closest friends knew it. Pansy was a witness when the two were married (in true romance novel style, no less), and for all that Seamus' career as a sportswriter for the Daily Prophet had him traveling a fair bit (and flirting at least as much as his wife did), he was completely devoted to Lavender. "Was there a reason you were calling?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course, how silly of me." Lavender gave herself a shake, then she smiled wickedly at the mirror. "I have a bit of gossip for you, from the Potters' party last night. Another baby shower for Ginny, of course."

"Of course." Pansy rolled her eyes at the mention of the baby shower, thinking it was a wonder Ginny still had some sort of figure even pregnant with her third child. "Something interesting, I presume, or you wouldn't be calling me about it."

"Luna dumped Ron." There was a note of glee to Lavender's tone, but then she never did forgive Ron for dumping /her/, back in school.

"And why is this interesting?" Pansy inquired, feigning boredom. Inwardly, she was convinced Lavender couldn't spill the details fast enough, but she didn't dare let the other woman know about her new fascination with Weasley, or she'd never live it down.

"Pansy!" Lavender cried, her voice a bit shrill with excitement. "It's positively delicious! I mean, really, no one ever expected Luna Lovegood to date anybody, and then she somehow fell in with Ronald Weasley, which I'm still trying to wrap my head around. Then she declares, after /two years/ of dating, in front of Merlin and everybody, that the wrackspurts and nargles have told her that they're just no good together and she can't date him any more."

Pansy just stared at the mirror. "Wow. Breakup by fairy tale creature. That's got to be a new low."

Lavender laughed, then shook her head. "Even for Ron, it's a new low. I heard he went out drinking after leaving the party, but there's been no word from him at all today. I expect his firm will be putting out some sort of official statement, at some point, damage control, that sort of thing."

"I'm not so sure," Pansy said, with a shake of her head. "He's terrific at managing everyone else's image, but I don't know that he ever really bothers pruning his own." It was, in fact, one of the things she liked about Ron, though she'd sooner die than admit it aloud.

"Yes, well, you might have a point there, actually. More's the pity. If anyone could stand to have his image improved, it's Ron Weasley. I still find it hard to believe that he's managed to be as successful as he has, given his lack of talent in other areas." Lavender shook her head, frowning at the mirror.

"Oh, come on, Lav, he can't have been that bad, surely?" Pansy asked, siezing the opportunity to do a little grilling about her friend's experience with Weasley. "You two dated for what? Two months, back in school?"

"Merlin, don't remind me," Lavender groaned, rolling her eyes. "I try not to think about those days, you know."

"Humor me," Pansy requested, with a faint smirk. "I'll admit to some... vague curiosity. Why Weasley?"

Lavender heaved another theatrical sigh, and Pansy waited, knowing she'd won but that her friend was basking in the moment of undivided attention. "Honestly? At the time, I thought he was cute." Pansy nodded at her to go on, but Lavender needed no such prompting, once she'd begun. "Of course, we all know Weasley could never compete with the likes of Draco, or even potter, but he's still sort of cute. I think it's the freckles."

Pansy laughed at this, tossing her head. "Point. After the thrill of dating Potter's best friend wore off? There must have been something else, to keep you dating."

"Hormones," Lavender replied, her tone matter-of-fact. "Well, that and the size of his hands."

"Lav!" Pansy feigned shock, but it's entirely for show, and they both knew it. "And here I thought Seamus was your first."

"Oh, he was!" Lavender protested, with a laugh. "Ron wasn't a great kisser, honestly, but he could do wonders with his hands. Of course, we never went all the way, not in two months' time, and never below the waist, but not for lack of enthusiasm." She smirked, adding, "Ron was always willing to make up in enthusiasm what he lacked in experience, which is probably why he and Granger didn't make it. She strikes me as the type to appreciate skill."

"I refuse to speculate on her current relationship," Pansy said, rather firmly. "Not even off the record. Sorry, Lav," she added, upon seeing her friend's crestfallen expression. "I promised him I'd leave them alone."

"The most controversial couple in the wizarding world and you have no comment?" Lavender sighed again and shook her head. "Tragic. Well, I'd best be going, Seamus is home tonight and I have plans."

"Page 235?" Pansy inquired, with a knowing smile. Her wedding gift to Lavender had been a wizarding copy of the Kama Sutra, and she often picked a random page to tease her friend with.

"324, actually," came the reply, and Pansy tried not to laugh at the rush of color in her friend's face. "So I need to get ready. We should have lunch later this week, though, and catch up. Friday?"

"Can't, Lav, I'm seeing the family this weekend. Next week, though, I promise. Maybe Wednesday? I've got that meeting with Weasley in the afternoon, I could do with a fortifying lunch beforehand."

"It's a date. Enjoy the countryside. Ta, darling." The mirror's surface darkened as Lavender hung up, and Pansy closed it with a sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to play in it on occasion.

**Part Five**

The persistent chirping noise of the mirror roused Pansy again the next morning. She cracked an eyelid and groaned at the time, wondering what could possibly be so important it required disturbing her rest before noon. Closing her eye again, she rolled over and pulled the pillow over her head, hoping that whoever it was would realize their error and decide to call at a more reasonable hour. The chirping stopped, and for a moment Pansy dared to hope that she might be able to get some more rest, but her hopes were dashed when the chirping started up again less than a minute later.

Snatching the mirror from the bedside table, Pansy flipped it open and snarled, "What?"

"Mademoiselle Parkinson?" The cool, collected, perfectly French-accented dulcet tones of Gabrielle Delacour, Ron Weasley's secretary, were a mockery at that unholy hour of the morning.

"Wrong number," Pansy mumbled, snapping the mirror shut before the woman on the other side of it could get a good look at her through the glass. She groaned again, used some of Draco's favorite foul language, and threw the covers off, sliding out of bed and stalking into the bathroom as she went to eye herself critically in the mirror.

After the call from Lavender, she'd been unable to get Weasley off her mind, even with the last resort of writing several pages of smut for her next novel. When she'd fallen into bed, her mind still working feverishly even though her body was utterly exhausted, it was well past midnight, and closer still to dawn by the time she finally drifted into a fitful sleep. Looking at her reflection, Pansy swore again, hoping Gabrielle didn't get a good look at her when she'd opened the mirror earlier. Her hair was sticking up every which way, her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and ringed with deep circles left over from yesterday's mascara, and her cheeks were blotchy and showed creases from the pillowcase.

In the bedroom, the mirror started its relentless chirping yet again, and Pansy swiped at her face with a cool washcloth, located her wand to cast a hasty disillusionment charm so that she at least _looked_ as though she was halfway put-together, and flipped the compact artifice open once more. "Yes?"

"Mademoiselle Parkinson?" Gabrielle, curse her, still sounded perfectly cool and professional, and had the nerve to look stunning on top of it.

"Miss Delacour," Pansy replied, relieved to hear that at least she didn't _sound_ as though she only got four hours of sleep. She didn't ask why the other woman was calling, knowing that she'd get this information sooner or later.

"Mademoiselle, I am so pleased to have gotten through to you at last, I have been trying all morning." It took everything Pansy had not to correct her on that, knowing the mirror only started chirping some fifteen minutes ago. "Monsieur needs to see you right away."

"This can't wait until our regularly scheduled meeting?" Pansy asked, feigning boredom with such success she almost fooled herself.

"Non, mademoiselle, I do not think so. He seems most distressed."

"Are you sure I'm the one he needs to see?" Pansy asked, the disbelief in her voice unforced, as she couldn't imagine why Ron would be asking for _her_.

"Oui. He was most emphatic." It was Gabrielle's way of saying he'd been yelling, Pansy knew, which made her smirk, just a little.

"Give me half an hour to make myself presentable, then." Without waiting for a reply, she closed the mirror again, strolling back into the bathroom to do a more thorough cleanup.

* * *

Just over half an hour later, Pansy stepped off the lift and headed down the hall leading to Weasley's offices. Since Gabrielle was less than forthcoming about why her presence was required, most of the half hour was spent fussing over what to wear, and she knew without having to check her reflection in the glass windows that she looked good: short-sleeved button-front blouse in a pale green silk tucked into a black pencil skirt that fell to just below her knees; the matching black blazer with three-quarter sleeves leaving her wrists bare save for the silver-and-emerald tennis bracelet she'd worn since Draco gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday; three inches added to her height by a pair of what Draco used to call 'fuck-me pumps', the stiletto heels digging into the carpet with every step.

Pansy sauntered into the outer office with her head held high, waving a hand dismissively toward the quarter-Veela at the desk. "I can show myself in, thank you, Miss Delacour." Before Gabrielle could stop her, without bothering to knock, she opened the door and stepped inside, then stopped dead at the sight of Ron Weasley in nothing but a towel.

She could almost feel him staring at her, could imagine his eyes wide with shock, but it wasn't his face, his eyes, that she was staring at. Her eyes were completely riveted by three little droplets of moisture clinging to his chest (a chest she'd never realized before was quite so broad and muscular), and the cool reserve she managed to wrap herself in on the way over shattered as a rush of desire swept through her.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Ron croaked, after a moment, his voice cracking.

Pansy blinked, wrenching herself out of the self-induced haze of lust and finally focusing on his face. "Gabrielle called me. She said you wanted to see me about something. I'll just wait outside, shall I?" To her relief, she at least _sounded_ as calm and collected as humanly possible, at least for the pre-noon hour.

Her explanation had him swearing, and Pansy backed out, reaching for the handle of the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of him letting go of the towel with one hand to grab for his wand, saw the towel start to slip, had the barest glimpse of the curve of his hip and the shape of his backside before she finally pulled the door closed with more force than she'd intended. She leaned against it and breathed another of Draco's favorite epithets, then pushed away from it when she heard Gabrielle snicker.

Straightening, Pansy turned and fixed the other woman with a frosty glare. "Did Weasley really insist on seeing me, or was that some sort of joke for your personal amusement?" she demanded.

Gabrielle feigned offense at the accusation. "Monsieur was most explicit," she replied, her voice silken with the haughty French accent, though it wasn't as thick as her sister's. "I did try to warn you before you walked in," she added.

"You might try a little harder next time," Pansy snapped, pacing away from the door. She had her next insulting little barb perfectly crafted, her mouth open to address the quarter-Veela witch and hopefully pierce through that thin veil of disdain separating her from something more believably human when the doorknob rattled, and she closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked together, much to her annoyance.

The door wass wrenched open from inside, and Pansy decided she liked him better this way: hair still damp and curling from the shower (how stupid of her not to remember that his office has all the amenities of a flat for those days that he needs to change between meetings, of course he'd take advantage of that with the separation from Luna), white dress shirt no longer perfectly pressed thanks to his haste in pulling it on and still open at the throat, face tinted red with either anger or embarrassment or some mixture of both. Her eyes fixed on that bare skin revealed by the not-quite-buttoned-all-the-way shirt, the hollow between his collarbones just barely visible above the white fabric, and she spent all of ten seconds fantasizing what it would taste like to lap at that skin with her tongue.

"PARKINSON!" Ron roared, in what she identified as clear anger, snapping her back to reality. She was too relieved that she wasn't blushing like a schoolgirl over her first crush to even register that he was yelling at her.

"Good morning to you, too, Weasley." Pansy managed just the right amount of biting sarcasm, and for effect even cocked an eyebrow in almost-genuine disdain. "Would someone care to bother telling me why I was summoned here at such a ghastly hour of the day?"

Ron's rage dissipated somewhat, and he rounded on his secretary. "You woke her up?" he demanded, and Pansy felt an irrational surge of glee that he'd remembered that she preferred to sleep until noon, despite the fact that it was hardly a secret, what with all the interviews she'd done, meetings they'd scheduled to accommodate her habits. "Why would you do that?"

Without batting an eyelash, Gabrielle replied in rapid-fire French that Ron was a tyrant and expected too much of her, and finally finished in the most broken English Pansy had heard since kicking out her latest boytoy, "I thought it was what you wanted."

Pansy gaped at the woman for a moment, recognizing an outright lie when she heard one, then recovered her composure and turned her attention to Ron, who was still gaping. "Well, I'm here now, you might as well show me whatever it was that was so bad you were shouting at poor Miss Delacour."

Swearing, Ron stalked back into his office, and Pansy trailed after him, closing the door behind herself once she was inside and then taking a seat in one of the chairs. He dug in a desk drawer for a moment, fished out a large envelope, and tossed it onto the desk. Where it remained until he got a better look at her, at which point he swallowed nervously, picked it up and handed it to her, rather than leave it for her to lean forward to pick up. "These arrived this morning."

The sudden nervousness had her wondering what the envelope contained, and she shifted her grip on it to glance inside. Photographs. Sliding them out of the envelope, she turned the stack over and blinked at the one on top, which featured herself and Ron at the bar, when she was helping him up. There were a dozen of them, and put together they caught the entire walk from the bar to the door, the last one giving her pause. How had she not noticed his hand on her arse? Returning the pictures to the envelope, she tossed it back on the desk and looked at him with one eyebrow arched. "So?" she asked, coolly.

"You sure you don't want to change your story from yesterday?" he asked. She watched his eyes drift lower, to take in her choice of attire, and she realized abruptly that she'd made at least three errors when getting dressed.

Rising to her feet, Pansy tossed her head and sneered, "Just be glad I didn't notice your hand on my arse, Weasley, or I'd have had to hex it off." It bothered her more than she cared to think about that he didn't believe her, and she stepped toward the desk, her fingers swiftly undoing two more buttons on her blouse.

"What are you doing?" His voice crackd three times in that single question, the obvious nervousness giving her courage she never would have had on her own as he tried to desperately backpedal away from her -- in vain, because his mother insisted on getting him one of those heavy immobile desk chairs after he tipped over three of the ones with wheels in rapid succession and broke his arm the last time.

It was a question Pansy had no real, logical answer for, a question she couldn't stop to think to answer lest she lose that newfound courage. Instead, her fingers undid the last of her buttons and she shrugged out of the blouse, letting it drop to the floor before leaning into his personal space until they were eye to eye. "Showing you what you missed," she purred, watching his eyes go wide at the way she says the words, knowing full well what that tone of voice did to a man's resolve. Without thinking about what she was doing, or what the consequences might be, she closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his.

His lips were softer than she expected, and up close she could smell the slightly spicy fragrance of his soap and something her brain instantly identified as 'Ron', and before she could lose her mind completely she moved to pull away, to end it. She didn't make it, though, as she suddenly felt his hands, warm against the skin of her back, holding her in place at first and then tugging her closer, his lips moving beneath hers. It was all the permission she needed to reach for his hair with both hands, running her fingers through the damp strands, straddling his lap with an almost wild abandon and pressing herself up against him, her lips parting to let her tongue flick against his still-closed mouth, demanding entrance. He groaned beneath her, his body shuddering with the effort of trying to hold himself back, but he gave in to her demands and the brush of his tongue against hers was almost too much to bear.

Time passed, measured in heartbeats and frantic, panting breaths, and too soon Pansy was pushing herself away from him, out of his hands, wobbling just a bit on the heels before recovering her balance, if not her sanity. She bent and scooped up her blouse and shrugged it on in a single practiced motion, her fingers deftly redoing the buttons without needing the direction of her conscious mind to do so. Which was good, since her attention was wholly focused on the rather sizable bulge in Ron's trousers, and she smirked as she tugged her skirt back down to cover her thighs. "Too bad it'll never happen," she said, backing away from the desk and toward the door. "It might have been fun," she added, upon reaching the door, lifting a hand to waggle the tips of her fingers in a wave before disappearing back into the safety of the outer office.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Apologies, once again, on how long it's been since updating, but life has been hectic and stressful and generally not conducive to writing. I had some difficulty with this chapter, too, but it turned out better than I'd initially expected. My thanks to everyone who's reviewed and been keeping up, a huge shout out to SeraphimeRising for letting me bounce ideas off her, and of course kudos to my beta (in my world, anyway) bookaddict19. Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why!! And bonus points if you can figure out what three errors Pansy made while dressing, hah!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's world, I just like to play with her characters on occasion.

**Part Six**

Stepping through the door to the exclusive wizarding club, Pansy shrugged out of her wrap and took the opportunity to glance around. Minerva's was harder to get into than an invite-only black-tie Ministry event, not that she'd ever tested that personally. While it was named after the illustrious Headmistress McGonagall, the establishment officially belonged to the Order of the Phoenix as a whole, though she knew that several of the Weasley brothers had a hand in managing the place. According to rumor, it had been brainstormed into existence by Ginny Weasley, but no one had ever been able to prove it.

The decor was elegant without being ostentatious, upscale in an understated way, with tables and booths arranged around an open area that Pansy guessed was a dance floor on the lower level, as well as an upper terrace level at the far end. It was tasteful and just a shade romantic, and she had a feeling Draco had been involved in the decision of where to have dinner.

When he'd interrupted her flurry of packing on Friday afternoon, she'd thought him mad to suggest dinner with himself, his current girlfriend, and said girlfriend's ex. She'd told him so, too, quite loudly (once she'd finished swearing, anyway), but of course she could never really say no to Draco, even if she _did_ have her doubts about the longevity of his current relationship (not to mention his sanity, which had been in question ever since the day she'd encountered Granger in an ice cream parlor wearing one of Draco's shirts). It had thoroughly ruined her trip to visit her parents, because she'd been too busy worrying about the impending doom of the upcoming dinner to enjoy herself, though she knew her parents would never notice.

Draco had told her that the purpose of the dinner (Granger's idea, supposedly) was to have a show of 'no hard feelings' or some other such nonsense, and she'd only really caved when he mentioned they had reservations for Minerva's, though she'd never admit aloud to anyone that she'd been dying to get inside the place since its opening. She'd taken her time getting ready, making sure the neckline of her dark green dress with cap sleeves didn't dip too low, or the hem ride up too high. Her nails were polished a light pink, perfectly manicured and shorter than she usually wore them because she'd broken one in the midst of packing when Draco sprung the invitation on her suddenly, and the only jewelry she wore was a single strand of pearls that just barely grazed her collarbones. The black peep-toe pumps had only a two-inch heel, the entire outfit quite possibly the most demure thing in her wardrobe, though the way the dress clung to her curves was quite flattering and not really at all modest. Still, she was making an effort not to openly seduce her dinner partners (Granger included, not that Granger was her type), which had to count for something, surely.

The hostess greeted her with a polite smile, asking if she had a reservation. "Malfoy, table for four, I believe?" Pansy queried, nervously reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, never mind that it fell away again immediately afterward. "The rest of my party should be here, I expect, I'm afraid I'm a bit late." She wasn't in the habit of arriving late, however 'fashionable' some people might consider it, but she'd wanted to make sure the others would already be seated, so as not to appear over-eager.

"Oh, you must mean Granger," the hostess replied, her smile still firmly in place though Pansy could feel her own freezing on her face.

"Yes, of course." Somehow, she managed to still sound gracious and polite even though she hissed the words out through gritted teeth. It was a talent.

The woman led the way toward the stairs leading to the upper terrace level, and Pansy couldn't help but notice the 'VIP' sign hanging in plain view. She was two stairs from the top before she was high enough to make out Draco's head, and she repressed the urge to fling hexes at it, suspecting that the security (all former MLE, she was almost certain) wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, she forced herself to widen her smile, affecting cheer as she approached the table. "So sorry I'm late," she said, as Draco rose to pull out her chair. "No, sit, Draco, I can get my own chair, thank you." She used the gesture as an excuse to swat his arm, quite a bit harder than she would have if she hadn't been so irritated with him.

"Hello, Pansy," Hermione greeted her, from across the table. To her credit, she was at least genuinely trying to be friendly.

"Parkinson." Ron's greeting was reluctant and sullen, and she could almost make out a very faint flush to his skin.

A waiter approached, looking faintly harried, and Pansy wondered how long they'd been waiting for her. She'd only been fifteen minutes late, but she knew Draco was practically obsessive about punctuality, and suspected he and Granger had arrived early. After deciding that a bottle of firewhiskey would probably be frowned upon by her dining companions, Pansy ordered a glass of wine, then fixed her attention on the woman across the table. "So. Granger. How are things in the world of children's books?"

"Pansy." Draco growled a warning from beside her, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"What? I'm making conversation, isn't that what we're supposed to do?" Pansy waved a hand dismissively, refocusing on Granger, who colored at the scrutiny. "Relax, Granger, I don't bite. Not unless I'm invited to, of course," she added, her voice lowering to a sultry purr as she turned her head to the left to glance at Ron.

He gaped at her, as did Granger, and she heard Draco choke on his drink and had to suppress a snicker. Men. Looking back at Granger, she flashed her a wicked smile and arched an eyebrow, taking advantage of the moment to study the other witch. Gone were the bushy hair and buck teeth, but then Pansy already knew that, had seen it that day in the ice cream parlor, and tonight the waves were sleek and tamed into a simple French twist, the pale blue dress accenting her curves in a way Pansy was sure was Draco's doing. He always did have excellent taste, and she wondered briefly if Granger had even half a clue what her outfit had cost. At least she wore it well.

"Why does everyone's mind automatically go into the gutter whenever I enter a conversation?" Pansy asked, rolling her eyes again when Granger had recovered. Ron was _still_ gaping.

"Probably because you insist on talking like that," Draco all but growled at her. She rather enjoyed the way Granger squirmed at the sound of his voice, it was always fun watching him work.

"There's nothing wrong with the way I talk," Pansy purred back at him, straightening when the waiter appeared with her drink. She gestured toward Granger with her free hand, rolling her eyes again. "Honestly, Granger, it was a serious question. You _are_ still working at the library, aren't you? I've always had a fondness for libraries. My last book had a librarian in it, as a matter of fact."

"Yes, I know," Granger began, only to have Ron finally come to his senses and interrupt.

"Book before last, technically," he said.

All three of them stared at him, and then Pansy laughed, the sound low and sultry and wicked, and her fingers grazed the back of his hand as she said, "Yes, technically, but the new one isn't in print yet, remember?"

He jerked his hand away as if her touch burned, and Draco kicked her under the table, giving her a warning look. So much for not seducing her dinner companions. Pansy schooled her features and tried not to look smug at Ron's expression, her attention returning once more to the witch across from her. "As I was saying, Granger," she began, yet again.

As though the words had been a summoning charm, the waiter appeared, asking if they were ready to place their orders. Pansy rolled her eyes and picked up the previously-untouched menu, marginally surprised to find there were no prices listed. She flipped through it briefly, but was distracted by the sound of the men insisting that Granger order first, and looked up to see Ron glaring daggers at Draco, who was looking amused. It made her want to swat them both, but she didn't think she had the strength required to knock common sense into either of them. Granger sent a warning look at Ron, then ordered in brisk, businesslike tones, without even opening her menu. The waiter addressed Draco next, and Pansy thought Ron's jaw might crack from the strain of gritting his teeth, and his cheer was clearly forced when he placed his order. She glanced at the menu again, picking something that sounded expensive, then handed the thing off and drained her glass.

"If you two are going to keep this up," she said, gesturing to indicate the men at the table, "I may need something stronger. Granger?"

"You know, you _can_ call me Hermione," the know-it-all corrected, arching a brow at her.

"Spiffing. You didn't answer my question, _Hermione_. Something stronger?" Pansy pressed. She was slightly horrified to realize she was beginning to like Granger's cheek.

"Terry, does George still keep those bottles of firewhiskey in the cellar that he thinks we all don't know about?" Hermione asked of the waiter, who nodded a reply.

"Bring two," Pansy suggested, flashing him a grin. When he'd gone, she addressed Draco and Ron again, "Maybe it would be quicker if you two just whipped the bits out for comparison."

"No need," came Hermione's voice, and Pansy was quite pleased to see the look of mischief on the other witch's face. "Draco wins."

Draco laughed, and Ron sputtered, and Pansy reached over to pat his hand in sympathy. "Now, now, Weasley, we're just having a bit of fun."

"Keep your paws off me, Parkinson!" Ron's shout didn't turn heads, proof of the silencing charms around each table that kept conversations private, but she could almost swear she heard a note of desperation in his voice. He pushed his chair back and stood, face red and looking sullen.

"Ron, wait," Hermione pleaded, only to earn herself a glare from the redhead.

"I've got to use the bloody loo, Hermione, d'you mind?" he snapped, turning and walking away without waiting for a reply.

"I should go after him," Hermione said, casting an apologetic look at Draco and getting to her feet.

"Can I say 'I told you so' now?" Pansy asked of Draco, once Hermione was outside the ring of charms around the table. "This is a disaster, and nobody's smashed yet."

Draco swirled the liquid in his glass, and Pansy's smile faded. He was avoiding her questions, which meant he had something else on his mind. "What's going on with you and Weasley?"

"Don't be stupid, Draco," she snapped, automatically shifting slightly away from him in her chair. "He's my agent. We have a working relationship. End of story."

"So why are you flirting with him?"

She stared at him in shock. "I am not _flirting_ with _Weasley_!" she hissed, offended.

"It's so very unbecoming when you try to lie to me, Pansy," he drawled, setting his drink aside and leaning toward her. "If you want the Weasel, have at the Weasel, Merlin knows he could probably use a good shag."

"So could I," she snapped without thinking. He smirked at her, and she wanted to hit him. "This was a mistake, I _told_ you this was a mistake." She got up, throwing her napkin onto the table, as she spotted Granger returning without Ron.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asked, looking somewhat sad and almost vulnerable.

Pansy felt sorry for her, and cursed herself for the weakness even as she felt her expression softening. "Hermione, thank you for the invite, but next time you should maybe tell your boyfriend not to be an arse." She glared at the top of Draco's head, since he was still sitting, and then turned on her heel and walked away, making a mental note to call the witch later and ask her to tea. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, having Hermione Granger in her circle of friends.

The restrooms were discreetly located off to one side, and Ron emerged from one of the doors as she walked past. She narrowly avoided a collision, and they spent several seconds staring at one another. "You're leaving?" he finally asked.

"You're welcome to join me," she sassed in reply. It was partly out of guilt for bailing on dinner, knowing the odds would be entirely against him if he went back to the table with both of their exes. "For dinner, I mean," she added hastily, when he looked ready to refuse.

He turned his head back toward the stairs to the upper level, then sighed, his shoulders drooping in defeat. "Sure. Can't get any worse, right?"

"Right," she agreed, leading the way out. As she walked, she reflected that it might very well get a whole lot worse, depending on how much alcohol was involved... but she wasn't about to tell _him_ that.

**Author's Note:** I had a whole lot of fun writing this chapter, as my faithful readers will probably be able to tell by how quickly after the last one it's been posted. It might be a few days before Part Seven turns up, but I promise it will be worth the wait. My thanks to everyone who's reviewed, a big shout out to SeraphimeRising for letting me bounce ideas off her, and my beta bookaddict19 for being good enough to beta this thing over IM because I was too impatient to wait for email. Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why! (And for those who are wondering what happened when Pansy left Ron's office, check out Business As Usual for some answers on his real relationship with Gabrielle!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to have fun with her characters.

**Part Seven**

Later, Pansy wondered if maybe she should have issued the warning after all. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to keep her mouth shut, but that simply convinced her that she'd already decided on some level to just seduce him and get it over with. Which made what followed inevitable, really.

She already knew that he was attracted to her, because otherwise he wouldn't have responded so well when she'd kissed him. That kiss had made things rather awkward between them, however, and the events of the 'dinner' with Draco and Hermione hadn't helped matters, so when she commented that she didn't have much of an appetite left and he suggested getting drinks together instead, she'd agreed. Alcohol almost always guaranteed a lowering of inhibitions, and she'd already seen that he was a cheap drunk; after the first two were finished, she proceeded to flirt with him in earnest, and was surprised when he flirted back.

They were discussing Quidditch, of all things, on the pretense that she was considering making the sport a part of her next book, and while the subject itself was quite harmless, their conversation was rife with innuendo. She reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips, as she had in the restaurant, but this time he didn't pull away. Instead, his hand turned, beneath hers, and his fingers brushed against her palm in a way that sent a rush of heat through her, then slid toward her wrist, to repeat the gesture. Not to be outdone, she toed off her shoe beneath the table and then ran her foot up his leg, smirking when he finished another glass of firewhiskey in response. By the time they'd finished a fourth round, he was rock hard beneath her toes and staring at her with such intensity in his eyes that she half wondered if they'd even make it back to her flat.

They did, but only just barely, and only because she was the one who Apparated them. Clothing was shed in a frenzy, hands roving over skin and mouths clashing, teeth and tongues warring for dominance before he finally pulled her to the floor because neither of them could wait any longer. She'd been worried the alcohol would impair his ability to function, but it turned out she had nothing at all to worry about: they had sex twice on the floor before she finally coaxed him into the bedroom, where he demonstrated talents she never would have suspected he possessed until sleep finally claimed them both, arms and legs still intertwined.

She woke first, entirely too early, due to an irritating buzzing sound from the other room that she finally realized was someone calling his mirror. Cracking an eye open proved to be a mistake, and she quickly closed it again with a groan, throwing her arm over her eyes in an effort to delay waking as long as possible. Beside her, she felt Ron stirring, then heard a groan that suggested he'd attempted to open his eyes and discovered it to be a mistake. "Now I remember why I don't drink very often," he grumbled.

"I've hangover potions on hand," Pansy murmured, without looking at him.

Silence. Then, his voice strained, Ron asked, "Parkinson?" She could feel the bed shifting as he edged away from her, and sighed, lowering her arm and opening her eyes just in time to see him fall over the side of the bed. The cracking sound of his head hitting the floor made her wince, though the subsequent swearing had her stifling a laugh before he finally barked, "Parkinson!"

"I think we're acquainted well enough for you to call me Pansy, Ronald," she purred, sliding across the bed and looking over the edge of it at him.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he half-moaned, half-whimpered, and she had to admit that he didn't look at all well.

"Try to remember to put the lid up," Pansy said, sighing again as she pointed him in the direction of her bathroom. As he made his way toward the loo, she slid out of bed on the other side, fluffing her hair with a hand before heading for her closet to retrieve a robe. Modesty wasn't something she held in high regard, but it seemed a prudent gesture given how he'd reacted the last time he'd woken up in her flat.

She knocked lightly on the bathroom door and raised her voice just enough to be heard through it, calling, "There's a robe in there you can wear, if you want. I'm keeping your trousers hostage." Padding barefoot into the living room, she proceeded to hunt down the various articles of clothing they'd discarded, and was looking vaguely amused by the time Ron finally emerged from the bedroom, his expression a cross between uncomfortable and irate.

"What do you mean, you're keeping my trousers hostage?" he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. The dressing robe had been left by her last boytoy (whose name she'd forgotten again), and was at least two sizes too small for Ron, leaving a fascinating amount of skin bare.

"Exactly what I said," she replied, after giving herself a shake and a mental smack to stop ogling the man. "You're welcome to leave without them, if you like, I'll even let you have your shirt and that ridiculous excuse for a robe, although I'm afraid you're on your own for shoes and socks, I haven't managed to locate them yet." Turning back to the task of trying to find her bra, she allowed him the opportunity to yell at her some more, but when he remained silent she added, "Hangover potions are in the kitchen, the cabinet above the sink. I rather suspect you could use one."

Again, there was no response, and she wondered what he was thinking, wanted desperately to look at him to read the emotions on his face, but she knew that would be a mistake. "Thanks," he mumbled, finally, and she heard him move into the kitchen to rummage for the aforementioned potion.

Pansy breathed a sigh of relief and straightened, drawing her wand from the concealed pocket of her dress and summoning the rest of the clothes, though she deliberately left his socks and shoes wherever they'd landed. She moved back to the bedroom to dump the garments, then extracted his trousers from the pile and used her wand to shrink them so that she could tuck them into the pocket of her robe, along with the wand. When she returned to the living room, he was standing in the kitchen doorway, and she had the fleeting thought that she could easily get used to the sight of him in her flat. It was quickly brushed aside as nonsense, and she nodded at the mug in his hand. "I see you found the coffee pot."

"Why are you holding my trousers hostage?" he asked, looking more uncomfortable with each syllable. She didn't want to tell him the truth, couldn't bring herself to admit that she'd been infatuated with him for nearly a week.

"Souvenir," she replied flippantly, tossing her head and striding toward him, then stopping to arch a brow when he didn't move away from her, or allow her access to the kitchen. "Do you mind?"

"I mind that you're keeping my trousers, yeah."

She blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden display of wit, and then she tilted her head back and laughed. "Well, well, maybe Draco was right. Maybe all you needed was a good shagging." She'd meant it as a joke, but before she'd even finished saying the words she knew they were a mistake.

It certainly got him moving, as he flinched away from her and gave her a look that reminded her of a kicked dog. "Is that all this was to you?"

Pansy was so stunned by this reaction that her response was more defensive than she intended. "What did you expect?" she asked, quietly, watching him. It wasn't up to par with her usual sarcastic bite, but she had a feeling he wouldn't pick up on the difference.

He looked back at her, and his reply was so long in coming that she was almost to the point of screaming for him to just say something already when he finally said, "I don't know." They stared at each other for a few moments, then he shook his head. "I don't know what I expected, I thought..." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, looking away from her briefly. When he looked back at her, he still had that kicked-puppy look, wounded and vulnerable, though he was trying to cover it with anger, and the anger was clear enough when he spoke again, "Would've been nice to not just be another notch in your bedpost, Pansy."

She glared at him, pulling his trousers and her wand from her pocket and enlarging them again before throwing them at him. Then she stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the walls. She held her breath, listening to the faint sounds of him recovering his clothing with a spell, then the crack of Apparition that signalled his exit. Arms crossed over her chest, she hugged herself tightly and slid to the floor, letting the tears flow freely as she wondered why she seemed so determined to screw up her life at every opportunity.

The sound of a second Apparition, less than five minutes later, was completely unexpected, and she was unable to stop her sobs in time to prevent them being overheard by whoever her visitor might be. Her flat had extensive security wards built into it, but there were a handful of people who could come and go at any hour, and she swiped desperately at the tears on her face as she tried to figure out who it could possibly be. A gentle knock on the bathroom door startled her, and her response was automatic as she snapped, "Go away."

For a moment, there was no reply, and then she finally heard a tentative, "Pansy?" Ron had come back.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Heartfelt thanks to SeraphimeRising, who helped me work out the kinks in this chapter, and of course kudos to bookaddict19 who was nice enough to beta it before her morning caffeine. Part Eight is already in progress, and will hopefully be up within a few days. Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why!


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to do things with her characters that she'd probably hurt me over if she were the type of person to read fanfic.

**Part Eight**

Pansy sniffled, then held her breath, hoping he hadn't heard it through the door. She hadn't bothered with a soundproofing charm, because she hadn't expected him to come back.

"Pansy?" Ron asked, again, following it with another brief knock.

Scrambling to her feet, Pansy lunged to grab the towel from the rack, wiping hastily at her face before yanking the door open, glaring up at him. At least, she'd prepared the glare, but it softened as soon as she actually saw him, his clothing rumpled from having been on the floor and obviously hastily thrown on, hair still mussed from sleep. His shirt was only buttoned halfway, and hung open just enough for her to see his throat and some of his chest, and he held a paper bag in one hand, just high enough for her to read the label of her favorite bakery. "You came back," she said, stating the obvious because she didn't know how else to respond to this remarkably unpredictable behavior.

He smiled nervously, and she felt guilty yet again for having wounded him with her words. "I was halfway home before I remembered it wasn't home any more." He tilted his head just a little, studying her, and then asked, "Were you crying?"

Taking another swipe at her face with the towel, Pansy started to deny it, then caught herself. "I'd rather not talk about it. Why did you come back?"

Ron lifted the bag higher. "Truce? I brought breakfast. Thought maybe we could talk. You know, like a pair of civilized people, instead of just sniping at each other."

"There's nothing to talk about," she replied, tossing her head imperiously. "We had a few drinks, and then we had some sex. It's not a big deal, hardly worth mentioning." She didn't know where the words were coming from, didn't know why she felt compelled to deny the attraction she still felt for him.

"It's a big deal to me." Ron didn't look wounded, this time, though the paper of the bag crinkled as his grip on it tightened, so she could tell that she was getting to him, on some level. "Especially since you were saying just a few days ago that it would never happen."

Pansy threw her hands up and groaned in frustration. "It was _just_ sex, Ron!" she exclaimed.

She was vaguely aware of the sound of the bag hitting the floor, and the next thing she knew he had her backed up into the wall, his mouth on hers, his hands holding her in place by her shoulders. There was nothing gentle about his kiss, it was all heat, passion, fire, and she was so surprised that he was taking the initiative that she didn't even fight him, her thoughts pleasantly muddled by the way his tongue slid against hers. When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn't to pull away; instead, his lips moved to kiss the sensitive spot just below her ear, his voice husky and rough with something she didn't want to think about long enough to define as he murmured, "Bollocks it was just sex."

He was right, and she knew he was right, because if it had just been about the sex then last night's events should have satisfied her, resolved her curiosity and allowed her to move on. Instead, she'd discovered that her obsession with him was even stronger come morning, and it terrified her because it was out of control, _she_ was out of control. She'd tried pushing him away with words as a way of protecting herself, and even though it had hurt to think he'd left she'd been convinced it was for the best to let him go, before she got too deeply involved. "I don't want to be the rebound," she whispered breathlessly, her hands finding the hem of his shirt and sliding beneath it, marveling at the warmth of his skin and eliciting a groan that went through her to her toes.

"You're not," came his reply, his hands releasing her shoulders and moving to untie her robe, which she obligingly shrugged out of. "Merlin, woman, how could you think that?" He straightened, looking down at her, his blue eyes nearly as dark as they'd been last night when he'd pulled her to the floor.

That look in his eyes made her head swim, and Pansy tried to piece together her thoughts, her arguments. "You and Luna..?"

"Had been having problems for months," he replied, dipping his head to kiss her again. Less heat, this time, but no less fervently for all of that, and she tried to get the thoughts to process through her brain, tried to make sense of everything.

"So, last night..?" He was confusing her, and she had the disconcerting feeling that she'd missed something vitally important and was having to play catch-up.

"I wanted you," he confirmed, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her close, then edging toward the bed. "Have for years, actually, but you weren't interested. Not until recently, anyway." His fingers caressed her backside, and his free hand came up to toy with her hair.

She was stunned. He'd wanted her for _years_?? Her mind was trying to frantically go back over every encounter, wondering how she could possibly have misread him for so long, but he was kissing her neck again and that made it difficult to think, so she settled for just bringing up his illness that very morning. "Then... this morning..?" she asked, sliding her hands up his chest beneath his shirt.

"Hung over," came his reply, before he pulled her the rest of the way toward the bed and gently pushed her backwards onto it. She let out a little hiss when her hands fell away from him, but he wasted no time in shedding his clothing again, his eyes as riveted on her as hers were on him. Her mind was still reeling, trying to process what he'd told her, but when he joined her in the bed and leaned in to kiss her again, she decided it didn't really matter. She ran her hands through his hair, then down his back, moaning into his mouth when his hand found her breast, her eyes closing. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving lower, tracing the line of her throat, then further down to lavish attention to her other breast.

Pansy had the fleeting thought that she'd been misinformed of his prowess, but coherent thought was rapidly slipping away under his skillful hands and mouth. Her fantasies hadn't done him justice, she decided, as his tongue swirled around her nipple, his fingers mimicking the movements on the other breast, sending a wave of pleasure through her that had her arching her back and moaning. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her thigh, and she moved her leg to brush against him, drawing a low groan that had him lifting his head so that he could look down at her.

There was no denying the look in his eyes, and no excuse to hide behind, either. Pansy rolled her hips upward, whispered his name, and he moved in response, dipping his head to kiss her while nudging her legs apart with his knees. A shift and roll of his hips, and he was inside of her, his tongue plundering her mouth in time with the rhythm of his hips. It was not the drunken, frenzied coupling of the night before, but there was still an urgent need to his movements, something she recognized on some level and responded to.

Every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his hips claimed a part of her, chipping away at defenses she'd set around her heart and mind years ago. She rolled her hips upward to meet his, her hands clutching desperately at his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist, heels at the small of his back to urge him deeper. His rhythm picked up, moving faster, his mouth breaking away from hers to kiss her cheeks, her neck, nip at her earlobe, and she gasped and cried out and clenched around him, her fingernails digging furrows in his shoulder, her head thrown back as he sucked at a spot on her throat hard enough to leave a mark. He kept going, and a second wave of pleasure began to build, and between gasps and pants and moans she purred a handful of filthy things into his ear, the sort of phrases she would never use in her books because they were too vulgar, but it worked because he drove himself deeper when she started to quiver and they came together, her name on his lips and her teeth digging into his shoulder.

He rolled sideways, pulling her with him, and they lay together, hearts pounding, silent except for their panting, gasping breaths that slowly started to become more regular. Eventually, her thoughts came back together, and she asked him, quietly, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"I'm sure." He opened his eyes and looked at her, his hand moving gently along her arm to back up his words.

"Because I'm not exactly the most emotionally available person, you know," she continued, lifting a hand to trace the bite mark she'd left on his shoulder. "I don't believe in happily ever after, so don't expect me to just drop everything to settle down and have a pack of Weasleys."

"Pansy." He caught her chin with his hand and lifted her head so that he could look her in the eyes. "I know who you are, and who you're not. I want this. I want you. I'm tired of trying to live up to Mum's expectations of me, anyway, it's past time I did something for myself."

"You dated Luna because your mother wanted you to?" She had to ask, because it just seemed so bizarre.

"I dated Luna because she's sweet and smart and exactly the type of girl Mum would want me to date. I was upset when she broke things off because I'd been trying so hard to keep us together, but it turns out she was smarter than I was."

"There's a shocker," Pansy deadpanned, smirking at him.

He swatted her backside. "Oi, none of that, or I'll have to spank you."

Pansy shifted, propping herself up on her elbow and grinning down at him wickedly. "Promise?" she purred.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I was a little worried last chapter when things got a little derailed from my story outline, but then I finished this one and realized I was back on track. Kudos to my beta, bookaddict19, who always manages to find typos even after I've gone through it three times and think I've got them all, and cookies and love to SeraphimeRising, who bribes me with smut to write more Pansy and Ron (an excellent motivating factor, if I do say so myself). Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to play with her characters every so often.

**Part Nine**

Two weeks after the disastrous dinner at Minerva's, Pansy met Hermione for lunch at the same locale. Since it was earlier in the day, the atmosphere was more casual, and she checked her cloak before turning a smile on the hostess that was less forced than the last time she'd been there. "Granger, party of two? I believe she's expecting me."

Having already witnessed firsthand Granger's penchant for wearing Draco's shirts, Pansy had elected to take a similar tactic: over her crisp white button-down and jeans she wore one of Ron's hand-knitted jumpers, the sleeves rolled back because it was rather ridiculously big on her. The blue matched his eyes, though, and she knew it was one of his favorites because it was fraying a bit at the hem; she'd surveyed her reflection in the mirror before leaving her flat and decided she _still_ looked more put-together and fashionable than Granger, whatever the other woman decided to wear.

When the head of wavy hair came into view, Pansy was gratified to see she'd guessed right, recognizing the pale blue shirt as one of Draco's, though the way it hung on Granger would have been a dead giveaway even if she hadn't actually seen Draco wearing the thing. She smirked at Granger's expression, smoothing the jumper down before sliding gracefully into a chair. "Afternoon, Hermione."

"Is that Ron's sweater?" So much for pleasantries.

"You're wearing Draco's shirt again," Pansy countered, waving a hand dismissively. "I think we might be better off if we agree not to discuss our respective bed partners, don't you?"

"But... but _Ronald_," she protested.

Pansy sighed, lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, and then looked across the table at Granger. "Has clearly picked up some skills since you dumped him. Now, I _could_ be cruel and point out that Draco was mine before he was anyone else's, and remind you that every time he touches you, or does that fantastic thing he does with his tongue, that he did it with me _first_, that our relationship was so hot at times that I'll never truly be able to capture it on paper." She took a deep breath, reining in her temper. "But I promised him I'd make an effort to play nicely, since he seems intent on keeping you. So do me a favor and don't harp on Ron, because I really do want to try to make this friendship thing work."

Hermione was blushing furiously, and she looked down at her hands and mumbled an apology that was interrupted by the waiter. Pansy waited for the man to leave before reaching across the table to pat the other woman's hand.

"Don't take that the wrong way, Hermione, regardless of what I said months ago at the ice cream shop. Draco cares about you, and I may not get it but I'm not going to try to spoil things, either. We were over a long time ago, after all."

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Pansy glared at him until he skittered away again. He had the worst timing of any service staff she'd ever seen. Hermione glanced up at her and finally said, quietly, "He cheated on me, did you know that? With Gabrielle."

Pansy nodded, her smirk reappearing on her face. "I don't expect that to be a problem."

* * *

Ron watched Angelina stalk out of his office before resting his head in his hands with a sigh. When she'd told him she was planning to divorce George, his first instinct had been to do the brotherly thing and warn his brother, and his second had been to laugh in her face and say, "I told you so." Clearly, he was going to have to find someone else to take her on as a client, because he had a feeling things were going to get nasty (her choice of solicitor practically guaranteed that), and Ron wasn't about to pull a Percy and turn his back on a family member. Mostly because his mother would have his head, and then Ginny would probably have his bollocks, and Pansy would be most upset if he went risking his manly bits.

Thinking of Pansy made him smile, then sigh again as he reflected it was likely still too early to call it a day and head home. Lifting his head with the intention of checking the time, he froze at the sight of Gabrielle standing on the other side of his desk wearing nothing but a pair of pink lace knickers and the stiletto heels she favored (he would never understand why the women in his life - barring Hermione - invariably insisted on wearing heels that were as far from sensible footwear as a person could get). Clearing his throat, he arched a brow at her and asked, "Something I can do for you, Gabrielle?"

She scowled at him, one delicate hand on the perfect curve of her hip. "For starters, you can act like a man, Monsieur." Her accent had thickened, her voice dropping to a sexy, predatory purr.

In retrospect, Ron supposed he should have seen it coming. Angelina had probably been reeking of sexual frustration, given her list of reasons for divorcing George, so of course Gabrielle would have reacted to it. Fleur had been very specific about her little sister's talents, back when he'd first hired her. It hadn't been a problem, really, for most of the last four years, having a quarter-Veela on staff, but that was before Pansy.

He stood up, the better to back away from her, his hands held up in what he really hoped was a placating gesture (it used to work with Hermione, anyway). "Gabby, I really think you have the wrong idea here."

She swore. At least, he was pretty sure she was swearing, his French had never been that great but he'd always prided himself on being able to recognize profanity in any language. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Ron turned his right hand around, pointed at the ring on his index finger that Pansy had given him, two days into their... whatever it was they were calling their relationship. "Figured it was about time I stopped letting my secretary lead me around by the short hairs," he replied, coolly. He knew she'd recognize the symbol, Fleur had pointed it out in front of half his family at brunch last Sunday.

Gabrielle swore some more, and this time he was _sure_ it was swearing because half of it was in broken English (the other half was still in French). Then she hissed and leaped at him, and Ron yelped and scurried out of the way, not wanting to draw his wand on her but knowing he was quickly running out of alternatives.

There was a bang from the outer office, and both of them froze; only a handful of people could get through the outer door once it was closed, and most of them weren't likely to help the situation in the slightest. For once, however, luck was with Ron, and he recognized George's voice yelling his name. Never mind that George sounded less than happy (he'd probably seen either Angelina or her solicitor, judging by his tone), Ron had a feeling that was about to change. He darted out of the office, gave his brother a helpless look, and said, rather breathlessly, "I'm having a spot of trouble, see if you can sort it out for me, will you?" Then he all but shoved George through the door, calling, "Mirror me later!" Closing the door with a bang, he leaned against it and listened, then remembered the soundproofing charms would prevent him hearing anything important. Silently wishing his brother the best of luck, even though he was pretty sure George wouldn't need it, he slipped out of the outer office, altering the sign on the door to read 'Closed'.

* * *

After the rocky start at lunch, things progressed to slightly better to much worse to not completely terrible before they agreed to call it not a total loss and went their separate ways. Pansy still had her doubts about whether she and Hermione would manage a workable friendship, but at least they understood one another better. To make it up to herself, she'd gone shopping afterward (Pansy was a firm believer in the merits of shopping therapy), and it was late in the afternoon by the time she arrived home.

She was surprised to find Ron already waiting for her, but dropped her bags on the floor and settled into his arms on the couch without hesitation. Her kiss to his cheek led to a kiss to his lips, which led to full-on snogging and petting and eventually some rather delightful sex right there on the sofa. In the heady afterglow, Ron asked her, his voice still a bit husky with desire, "So how was your day?"

"Managed to piss off your ex at least a dozen times," Pansy replied absently, more focused on kissing his bare chest. "Yours?"

"Sacrificed my older brother to my quarter-Veela secretary."

"Which one?"

"The brother or the secretary?"

Pansy laughed, swatting his chest, and slid up his body to plant a solid kiss to his mouth. "The brother, you cheeky git."

"George." Ron was looking smug, and pansy decided she rather liked the expression on him, though it was rather odd to see it. "He'll either thank me in the morning or come looking for my head."

"He can't have it." Pansy kissed him again, slowly, savoring the taste of his mouth, the way his body felt beneath hers. "It's mine. Just like the rest of you."

Ron shifted, his hands stilling on her back, and asked, "Do you mean that?" He sounded serious, and it took her a few seconds to catch up and realize what she'd said.

Slowly, she pushed herself up enough to look at him properly, and the expression on his face made her heart skip a beat. There was an intensity in his eyes that she'd never seen there before, and she knew that the entire scope of their relationship depended on how she answered the question. A small part of her was whispering that she could break him, destroy him, with a flippant answer, that his heart was in her hands in all but the most literal sense, but it didn't make her feel powerful, the way such thoughts used to; it scared the hell out of her, because she realized with a start that she didn't _want_ to break him. She wanted to keep him. Before she had time to think about what she was doing, she nodded and replied, just as seriously, "I mean it."

He pulled her down and kissed her, and then his hand moved down her back to pinch her backside and he murmured, against her lips, "Bed."

They couldn't get there fast enough, and very nearly didn't make it, unwilling to break contact as they walked and stumbled and groped at each other. Pansy felt a strange warmth in her chest, and wondered about it, but then he was kissing his way down her body and she stopped thinking altogether. His hands caressed her skin, followed by his mouth, teasing and bringing her to the brink of ecstasy without letting her fall over it, keeping her on the edge until she was begging for release, and for the first time her words weren't crude and vulgar, not the 'fuck me' she'd used for years, instead she pleaded, "Make love to me, Ron, _please_."

She didn't need to ask a second time, and the feeling of him filling her was the most wonderful thing she'd ever felt. For the first time in her life there was a meaning to the movement, to the rhythm, beyond simple pleasure, the kind of difference she'd written about any number of times but never experienced, until now. It wasn't something she'd ever really looked for, and certainly wasn't what she'd expected to find when she first started fantasizing about Ron, but there it was. He loved her, and she loved him back, and it made everything that much better. Afterward, when she could think properly again, she stroked his arm and murmured, "I love you, Ron."

He kissed her hair, then her cheek, and rumbled, "I love you, Pansy." A pause, and then he asked, "Is this our happily ever after?"

She laughed, stretching a little before cuddling up to him again. "Ask me again after you've introduced me to your mum."

Ron pretended to be scared by this, but she knew, somehow, that everything would turn out all right for them. She couldn't have written a better ending if she'd tried.

**The End**

**Author's Note:** So here we are at the end, finally, and I'm still a little surprised that I managed to follow my story outline for the whole four months it took me to get this thing written. I'm very glad to finally be able to call it completed, though, and huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed and even read without reviewing (even though reviews are love and make my day). Special thanks to SeraphimeRising, who kept my interest in Ron and Pansy as a couple alive throughout the length of this piece, I'm pretty sure I would have taken a lot longer to complete it if not for her. And, of course, kudos to my awesome beta bookaddict19, even though she hasn't actually looked at this chapter yet because I was in too much of a hurry to just post it and be done. Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why!!


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